"Are the ships in working order?"
"Mostly, aye. We'll need to devote some time to repairs."
"The smaller crafts undergo regular maintenance."
"As they should."
"Peter, will you be sticking with the Retaliant?"
There was dried blood clinging to Peter's hands. He watched it flake. "It's a practical vessel," he replied, gaze rising. "I've gotten familiar with the controls. I like it."
From his left, and in a clockwise fashion around the table, were Una, Aria, Tanis, Tritan, Bagley, a quartermaster named Seren Seiler, and a dead-eyed captain named Arngeir Stonehand. The last nodded in agreement. "She's dependable," he inserted. "Built by Finley Battlefrost herself."
Una studied Peter's face. "You're not interested in the warships?"
"The Retaliant has speed," Peter said. "Maneuverability."
"Maybe you should ask Ethos what's best."
"Ethos isn't as smart as he thinks he is."
He'd said it quietly, but Bagley heard from across the table. "He should be here," he muttered, and he glanced from his ledger as each of them turned to look at him. "War was just another game for Eadric to win, and we need Ethos to tap into that. He should be here."
"That boy is dangerous," Aria contended. "Peter can't even trust him."
Peter scoffed at her. "He hasn't exactly been himself lately."
Una's hand found his. Softly, she asked, "Is he okay?"
"He's fine. I locked him in the spicery."
"Peter, you can't do that."
"I can and I did. He's not all-powerful."
She forced a small smile, mindful of their surroundings. "I'm aware of that, dear," she said. "But that's not how friends behave. And he's not the sort to take it lightly."
Seren cleared her throat to cut in; she was distractedly picking at a small hunk of bread, eating it crumb by crumb. "Have the ships been assigned yet?" she asked. "I'd like to make myself comfortable before launch. There's ale to load, canvas to clap."
Tritan grunted, "Dibs on Ravager."
Her little nose crinkled. "You got Ravager last time."
"Dibs on Dreadnaught," Arngeir threw in. "I'm not getting stuck with the Gowl again."
A knock came at the door. Peter rose to answer it when Aria warned him to with her eyes. Waiting for him was a vaguely familiar face— a thirty-something officer whose name he'd already forgotten. "I don't mean to interrupt," the man said. "It's urgent."
Peter shrugged. "No bother."
"There are two vessels approaching from the south," he explained. "They're Oldden blackhounds, faster than anything I've seen."
The information sank in. "Have they sent out a transmission?"
"One, from the Nautilus," he said. "They're one hundred strong, sent by the king. We can't tell yet how many the second craft is carrying. Double that, I wager. Three hundred total. Nearly four."
"What do they want?" Peter asked. "Is Ozwell in command?"
The officer gave a nod. "He's requesting an audience with the Flint overseer," he said. "They'll be in the offing by dark. How do you want to handle it?"
"I'll talk to him. Where's your transmission room?"
"The warehouse, down at the boatyard." But he quickly prevented Peter from stepping out into the corridor. "There's more," he said. "A ship's being prepped for departure. The Echo— an old trade craft of ours. Might not even be seaworthy."
"Then keep it moored."
"But Anouk's the one prepping it."
Peter frowned. "Where would she be going?"
"Don't know, but she's got a few of those visitors helping her." As if afraid of being overheard, he glanced around and, behind his hand, whispered, "The birdfolk."
Peter closed the door at his heels and steered the officer away. "Go on ahead," he said. "I'll meet you in the transmission room shortly. Let me deal with Anouk and the Echo."
"Should I give the Nautilus permission to enter the fairway?"
"No," Peter replied. "Instruct them to wait."
"They've come from Oldden."
"I don't care. They'll have to wait."
The man uneasily left as directed, pulling a hat from his back trouser pocket. His shadow followed him around the corner. Peter felt for the scar in his gut and forcefully pressed upon it.
The nebule's abysmal plunging sensation immediately took hold. With a crack like the burning of damp firewood, Peter popped into the upended spicery. All was the same but the emptiness. The here-and-there spots of blood on the floor were the only traces of Ethos left.
He and Anouk were setting a course to Mount Savage. They had to be. Peter felt again for the scar and burst right onto the active wharf. The two successive jumps left him dizzy, and in his disoriented state he came very close to having his head off by a shipman's load of timber. He ducked and came up on the other side, scanning the signs that marked the piers.
The Echo was much farther down the waterfront. Peter picked his way through the midday crowd, as briskly as one could under the circumstances. He heard Anouk's voice long before he saw her; she was rigging a portside pilot ladder, barking at gathered linesmen above.
"Heave!" she commanded. "How much weight is on that?"
Someone else called, "Fenders ready, fore and aft!"
Another: "Launching tracks clear!"
Anouk briefly fussed with the lines, glancing every moment or so to assess their progress from the ground. It was a modest three-masted vessel, its decks striped by the shadows of halyards. The foresail flapped, Battlefrost blue, touting the serpentine shark of Flint.
Peter took Anouk by the arm as she turned from the ladder. "We had a deal," he hissed. "I should take this entire city from you. Where is he?"
She sneered at him. "Fall off or I'll cut you."
The look in her eyes said she'd do it and like it. Peter pushed her aside, scaling the ramp that led to the main. There was steerage astern, filled with crates, tackle connecting rudder to helm. Peter stepped back and craned his neck to see the afterdeck. Sei and Baroona were quibbling up there, heads bent over a clew iron that seemed to be giving them trouble.
Theirs were the only tono faces among the topside crew. Peter sidestepped a man with a shoulder of roping and descended the forward companionway, blind until his eyes adjusted. The galley below was near to his left, abutting the captain and officer cabins. There were men about in the hold farther in, running system tests for takeoff. Steam wailed and warmed the air.
The captain's cabin opened as Peter went for it. Ethos paused partway out, blinked in surprise, and rushed back in. Peter stuck his foot in the door. Next they were heaving their weight to each side, Ethos shouting for Sei, for Anouk, Peter snarling at him to shut up.
The ship was small, and the captain's cabin reflected that. When the door finally gave way, Peter tripped forward and immediately collided with a flush desk and bed. He couldn't have stretched out his arms if he'd tried. But he turned just in time to foil Ethos, who'd flattened himself to the wall to get by.
Peter seized him, felt for the scar, and
crack!
plunged into terrible, perfect darkness. The stench of it was overpowering, some awful blend of death and burnt hair. No light shone through, no shadow, no gray. He might as well have been blind.
Viridian light illumined the chamber. Ethos was distanced and pointing a cutlass, as far from Peter as the sealed vault allowed. "Why?" he asked, eyes confused and full of that light. "Why here?"
Peter had planned to say terrible things to him. He had. Truly. But he suddenly couldn't muster the words. There was shattered glass all over the floor. Dried pools of blood. Signs of a struggle. Eadric's tomb was closed between them, as chipped and cracked as its vile contents.
Peter said, "We're supposed to be in the flatlands."
Ethos flung a furious hand at the vault. "Then explain this!"
"I've never been in here, Ethos. It couldn't have been me." There was a bloody handprint on the sarcophagus. Peter lightly touched it. "It must've been on your mind."
Ethos hesitated, and just for a moment, honest surprise shone through his expression. But then he ground his teeth together. "Return me to Flint."
"Drop the sword."
"Eat shit."
"Did you put his body in here?"
Ethos glared at him. His eyes darted to the tomb and back. "I couldn't stand looking at him," he said. "The resemblance was too unsettling. It was like sitting in a room with my own gutted corpse." He gave his head a single hard shake, as if to dispel the memory. "Just take me back, Peter."
"Send someone else to Roheim. It doesn't have to be you."
"It's not your call. It's mine."
"The hell it is. You can hardly even hold up a sword."
Something raw and wretched filled his expression. "Just take me back."
Peter began to circle the sarcophagus, but stopped when Ethos limped in reverse. "I'm trying to protect you," he insisted. "Why can't you see that?"
Ethos was shaking his head again, over and over, like he'd do it forever. The blade sank. "I've had enough," he said. "I'm serious. Let me go."
"If you'd just relax— "
"Peter, stop." His eyes were earnest. "Please, just stop."
It was then that Peter understood. Ethos wasn't desperate to go to Roheim; he was desperate to get out, to go alone. To be free of the burden that Peter represented. His expression was pleading.
Peter stared. "I didn't mean that stuff about us not being friends."
"I told you this would happen, Peter. I told you to go home. I told you." Ethos swore aside, softly, and rubbed at his face, maybe to regain composure. He was quiet until his hand fell. "Take me back to my ship," he said. "I don't want to fight."
"We're not fighting."
Ethos scoffed— a miserable sound.
Peter approached through the shattered glass. He showed his hands when Ethos brought the blade back up. "You were tortured for a week," he said. "A week. And you haven't given yourself any time to recover. You're crazy if you think I'll just let you wander off into the mountains."
"You're deliberately making it sound worse that it was."
"You can't lie to me, Ethos."
"I was basically sitting around doing nothing."
"Aye, in the dark not being fed near enough. And I know it got worse."
Ethos made a sharp sound for silence. He looked angry again. "This needs to stop," he said. "All of it. Your protection is going to get one of us hurt."
An implication. Peter eyed the cutlass. "Is that a threat?"
"You turn everything into a fight, Peter. I'm not playing anymore. Just take me back."
"It only turns into a fight when you argue with me. Give me the sword."
Ethos was shaking his head again. "Don't order me around."
"You put me in charge, Ethos. Both of you did." The blade was a gleaming obstruction between them. "But you didn't need a king," he knew. "Not really. You just needed a Gladius. Right?"
Ethos went stiff in the shoulders, eyes as sharp as the light they reflected. "I'm not Eadric," he said, with purpose. "I'm not."
"Aye, keep telling yourself that. Seems it's a matter of time like."
"I wish it was you. Then you'd know how good you have it. How lucky you are."
Peter seized the sword by its spine and ripped it out of his hands. "Likewise," he snarled. "Do you have any idea what I'd give to be you?"
Peter had surprised him again. Ethos glanced back and forth between his eyes, like he'd find in one what the other was missing.
"What sucks is that you can't even see it," Peter said. "You take all of your talent for granted, and I'm stuck watching it go to waste."
"Am I supposed to apologize to you?"
"No, don't be stupid." Peter backed off, having been too honest again. The blade was warm. As an aside, he muttered, "I'm sorry for kicking you this morning."
Ethos didn't answer. He hadn't moved away from the wall, but something had changed. Maybe his posture. His eyes carefully followed the sword. "Yeah," he said. "It hurt."
Peter waited in vain and smirked. "I guess you're not in a very forgiving mood."
"My mood is irrelevant," he replied. "I'll forgive you if that's what you want."
He was nervous, Peter realized. His expression, his bearing, his caution and stillness… Ethos only quieted so completely in times of forthcoming danger. He was paying close attention to Peter, waiting to see what he would do. It was a strange feeling, not entirely unpleasant.
"The Nautilus will be in the offing by dusk," Peter said. "The Invictus is with it. They'll shoot you out of the sky if they're hostile."
After a pause, Ethos made a small sound of amusement. "It's my fault they're here," he'd realized, grimly. "Eadric caught me at a weak moment. I didn't know what I was saying." His eyes fell. "So he took that time to alert Michael. Smart."
"You understand now why I can't let you go."
But Ethos wasn't listening. "No self-respecting crownsworn captain would arbitrarily fire on a ship departing a neutral city like Flint," he said. "It could and would incite a war."
"Maybe so, but it's the tono they're after. They're not just going to leave."
"They must not know Eadric's dead yet. They'll stand down once they do, I'm sure."
Peter sat on the edge of the sarcophagus, put off by the lingering soup of his jealousy. "You should talk to Michael," he said. "You've always been better at this than me."
"You know I can't talk to him without getting confused."
"You're not denying you're better, though."
Ethos groaned. He slid down the wall and into a crouch, hands clasping behind his neck. He didn't speak for a while. "Bring me back, Peter," he said. "Seriously."
"Does being here bother you that much?"
"It's not funny."
"It is, a little. Usually I'm the one being teased."
Ethos chuckled in spite of himself. The sound bounced around the vault. "You have a surprisingly cruel sense of humor," he mumbled. "I'll remember that going forward."
The strange feeling returned. "Eadric must've been scary."
"Yeah. I thought he was my father."
"Did you want him to be?"
"I don't know." Ethos glanced up. "Can we please just go?"
"You were terrified of Eadric. Why would you want him to be your father?"
"It's not like I totally understand it. I guess we just get along sometimes."
Present tense. And as Peter watched his eyes drift away, he saw Eadric's smile emerge, privately wicked, riddled with holes, like he'd reminded himself of something. Subtle. Dark. "This is exactly what I'm talking about," Peter said. "You should see yourself."
Those eyes returned. That smile faded. "Return me to my ship, Peter."
"I want to trust you, but I can't. I'm sorry. You're a liability until we reverse this."
Ethos abruptly split into a grin. "You think you can fix me," he laughed. "That's cute."
"There's got to be a way for us to flush it all out of your system. Oubi, Ludo, Harken, Eadric— "
"They're not toxins, Peter. They're dead. This is what I do to people." Ethos quietly looked at the ground. His hands slid from his neck, elbows coming to rest on his knees. "They're part of me now," he eventually said. "I don't want to be fixed."
"It's changed you," Peter replied, and it had. "That's how I know it's wrong."
Ethos deigned no answer at first, but when his eyes finally jumped back to Peter, they shone with a dark, visceral light. He went to his feet. "I'm the same as I've always been," he said. "What's changed is that I can take care of myself. You just refuse to accept it."
"You're sick, Ethos. Sit back down."
With a flash of teeth, he barked, "Don't tell me to sit!"
He'd said the last with so much rage that Peter rose from the sarcophagus. His grip on the sword had tightened of its own accord. "Okay," he said. "Okay. Just take it easy."
Ethos seemed to force himself calm, or at least make a solid attempt to. "I've been pretty tolerant where you're concerned," he said. "I don't normally allow people to smother me to the extent that you do. But if this doesn't count as crossing a line, then I honestly have no idea what does."
"I didn't hear any objections when you were crying on me last night."
Ethos reacted like he'd been slapped. His anger came scrambling back. "I didn't cry."
"You did. You were all like, 'I'd kill me if I were you,' and then you passed out on my shoulder."
"I was drunk and you cornered me at my worst like you always do."
"Aye, and you'll be grateful when you're back to normal."
"I'll be grateful when you fall down a shaft."
A familiar storm stirred somewhere in the depths of Peter's chest. Resentment. Distrust. It had all but blended together now, outgrown skins of envy and doubt and formed a toxic lance of hatred. It shone down there in the coals and the silt where not even he dared to go.
Peter made of show of feeling for the nebule. Just so Ethos could see.
Ethos stared, and he took a small step. His expression slipped. "Don't."
crack.
Lush midland meadows greeted Peter with all the warmth that winter could muster. Light rain cooled his face. Thunder rolled. There was smoke in the distance, quite a way off; a town they'd passed the day before Farwell. They'd seen the lights from their camp at night, but they'd eaten too well to suffer the walk. Frankly he'd been content on the grass, and Ethos had looked about ready to doze, so they'd fed the fire and called it. The rolling hills had rippled with the breeze. The stars had been bright in the crisp winter sky. Una had snuggled with Peter for warmth.
He watched the smoke rise for a very long time, soaked in the rush of the fight, pulse loud. But as the minutes continued to pass unrewarding, the gravity of what he'd done sank in. The familiar storm in his chest went still, dispelled by a word and a slipped expression.
Peter kicked at the grass and swore.
crack
The vault refilled with viridian light. Ethos was sitting right where he'd been standing, head bent forward, hands in his lap. It was hard to tell if his eyes were open.
"Oi." Peter gently kicked at his foot. "You awake?"
Ethos didn't react. "I'm awake."
"Look up at me, then."
So he did. Neutral. Mild.
"I'm sorry," Peter said. "For real."
Ethos just nodded. His gaze slid low and away.
Peter swallowed. His throat was tight, so he cleared it. "Stand up."
Ethos complied, a hand at his ribs. To Peter's look of surprise, he said, "Don't get used to it."
He stood there and waited while Peter's mind reeled. There wasn't a plan— there never was. But there were options. Two, if he was counting them right. One would preserve their friendship, such as it was, at the cost of putting Ethos in harm's way, and while the second option ensured his safety, the very act of attempting it would quickly send them spinning into a realm of incurable discord.
Ethos was watching him, green eyes steady. "I don't want to hurt you, Peter."
"Shut up," Peter said. "Give me a second to think."
He wouldn't get a better opportunity. Ethos was weak, unable to fight. Unarmed, even. He'd be troublesome when his strength returned. And it wasn't like he'd done himself any favors; if he'd just slowed down every once in a while, heeded a word or two of advice, he wouldn't have suffered as much as he had. Peter just needed a little more time to figure out how to reverse what he'd done.
Perhaps sensing ill intent, Ethos let the hand fall from his ribs. "You'll regret it if you try to put me somewhere," he said. "I won't go back to that."
Peter reached for him. "I know."
Ethos lurched away, held his eyes. "Do you?"
"Yeah." Peter took up his shoulder and said, "It's okay."
crack
The captain's cabin swallowed them up, as small and stifling as they'd left it. Ethos immediately sat on the bed, both hands gripping the bulky frame.
"This kind of ship is equipped with a transmission system," Peter told him. "Anouk will know how to use it. Check in with us every day, alright?"
Ethos nodded, numbly. "Sure."
"What will you do when Syan's dead?"
"We'll meet you out west. Assuming we can get out."
Peter squatted to see his face. "Had you planned to use the nebule?"
"Obviously." Ethos avoided his eyes. He glared at the cabin's dusty porthole until he finally had to glance. "You should go," he said. "You're making me tense."
"You'll really check in, right?"
"I said I would."
Peter asked, "Do you hate me?"
Ethos looked away. He was quiet at first. "Eadric used to ask me the same thing," he said. "It was like he wanted me to hate him. Like he thought he deserved it." As if at a thought, he gave a small shrug and smiled unhappily. "Or maybe he just liked the thrill."
"That's not why I'm asking."
"I know." Ethos rubbed at his forehead, his eyes. "It's not hate," he said. "I'd know if it was. But I can't be near you right now. Not for a while."
A knot formed in Peter's stomach. "What's a while?"
Ethos sat forward. He glanced sidelong, no longer smiling. "You should go."
The cabin door swung open, and Alyce was suddenly there with a glare, forcefully wedging herself between them. Her hair was wild. "Back off!" she spat at Peter, shoving. "Stupid turd face!"
There wasn't enough space to maneuver out of the way. Peter banged the side of his head on the weathered desk. "Oi, midget," he spat back. "I wasn't gonna hurt him."
There were unshed tears in her eyes. "Stupid!"
He blinked. "Alyce, you're— "
"Ass hat!" she cried. "Knob jockey!"
"You're not listening to me. Nothing happened."
Ethos intervened, turning her by the arm. "It's okay," he said. "Don't shout."
"It's not okay," she huffed. "You can't just lie. You can't."
He smiled for her, wiping her cheeks with his thumbs. "You're a mess," he murmured. "I'm sorry about today. It must've been a rollercoaster."
"What's a rollercoaster?"
Just for a second, he looked confused. But then he smiled again. "You know, I'm not quite sure," he admitted. "It made sense when I said it. Sorry."
She stopped his hands from leaving her face. "Don't shut me out."
"It's better this way," he told her, firmly. "For both of us. I've just been off my game today."
Peter managed to get his elbow over the desk. He raised himself up to a knee. "Ethos," he said, and he was quiet until their eyes met. "I'm going to need her for the invasion."
Ethos made a hard line of his mouth. He nodded, just once. "Give us a moment."
Peter had to wait for Alyce to move out of the way. He stood and placed the blade on the desk, but paused by the bed before leaving. "Check in," he repeated. "Don't forget."
"I won't." Ethos wouldn't look at him. "Get out, please."
Peter sighed. It was the best he'd get after all that had happened. So he ducked into the empty galley and leaned against the work station there, arms folded, as a cluster of shipmen hauled coal from the main. Alyce was sending him a dirty look from the cabin, but Ethos said something that invited her eyes away. She made an inquisitive gesture.
And then something curious happened. Ethos took her hands in his, green eyes clear, persuasive, cloudless, and Alyce neared him to gaze right back. He didn't speak, and neither did she. And after what must've been a solid minute of staring at one another, Alyce gave a start of alarm.
Peter ventured a little closer, but Ethos was already finished with her. He was wearily sinking into the blankets when she closed the door to his cabin. "Let's go," she said, shooing at Peter. "We're done here, stupid, let's disembark."
He pointed at the door. "What was that?"
"What was what?" Alyce pushed him at the companionway. "Let's go."
Peter followed her topside, feeling like he'd missed something important. "I thought you'd put up more of a stink," he grumbled. "What'd he do to you?"
"None of yer earwax."
Peter resurfaced from the stuffy bowels. He was met at once and with great force by Anouk, who furiously seized the front of his jacket and flung him against the capstan. She put a knife in his face to keep him still, lips pared back in a doglike snarl. "Board my ship like that again and I'll have off your toes like I did my last striker," she growled. "Don't think I won't. I'll have them right off like."
Peter was tempted to shove her. "I get it," he said. "Your ship, your rules."
Her gray eyes flashed like angry steel. "Where's my seabird?"
"Below deck, right where I found him. Go look."
"You stormed in and stole him."
"I borrowed him."
"I'll have your toes!"
Near at hand, Alyce interjected. "He's telling the truth," she remarked, sounding less than thrilled about defending him. "Ethos is in your cabin. He's okay. He needs rest."
Anouk glanced toward her voice. The knife lightly bit into Peter's chin while her gaze was busy elsewhere. "And you?" she asked, upon seeing Alyce's expression. "You good?"
Alyce smiled. "I'm good. He's assigned me as Peter's navigator."
Anouk spun back on Peter, jaw set. "This turkey?"
Peter glared at her. "Back off, Anouk."
She leaned in and spoke for his ears only, tiny fury incarnate. "Get off my ship and don't come back," she hissed. "You're as much a king as a bloody snot bubble."
"Lose the knife unless you're planning to use it," he warned her. "Do it and I'll go."
She privately seemed surprised by his willingness to comply. She withdrew and stepped aside.
The crew had stopped to observe the exchange; they collectively returned to their duties now, lest Anouk witness their slacking. Peter turned and disappeared among them, feeling her eyes on his back as he disembarked. Alyce shuffled along beside him, sulking a little but uncomplaining. The salty breeze had frizzled her hair, stiffened the ends into well-defined wisps. She glanced like she'd felt him looking.
Peter offered her his hand, which she took. "I know you're not happy about this arrangement," he told her. "I don't like it, either. But am I allowed to be glad that you're here with me?"
Alyce smiled thinly for him. It was too much like Ethos, too private, too careful. "Be glad, stupid," she said, and she faced forward. "I'm doing it for him, so be glad."
"Don't I get any credit for letting him go?"
"You're not his guardian."
"I'll be whatever he needs me to be."
Alyce sent him a look. "Even if he doesn't want your help?"
"I don't care what he wants. He's in no frame of mind to make judgement calls."
"You brought him back to the worst day of his life, Peter. And you left him there." Alyce tugged her hand out of his. "Stop thinking you know what's best for all of us," she said. "You don't."
Peter slowed and looked back at the Echo, torn by the decision he'd made. Sei and Baroona were watching him from the afterdeck, shadows against the midday sky. "He's on guard right now because he's weak," he mused. "But it's the first time I really got through, I think."
"Did you hear me?" she demanded. "You'll be lucky to ever see him again."
She was standing ahead, arms firmly crossed. Peter bent at the waist to see her square, hands on his knees, and immediately she raised her chin as if to brave a crack to the jaw— a habit, perhaps, from living with Eadric. Maybe even her mother. "Alyce," he ventured, watching her eyes. "Were you the one who let him out of the spicery?"
"So what if I was? You gonna lock me up, too?"
Peter continued to gauge her expression; it changed in subtle ways to his silence. Her honesty was where she differed from Ethos. Maybe it was the human in her, keeping her good. "No," he said, and he gave her a chance to take his hand back. "Let's go."
"You scared him, Peter."
"I know."
"Did you mean to?"
"He needed to be reminded, I think."
Sourly, she took his hand. "Reminded of what?"
"His place." Peter guided her forward, into the crowd. "Eadric's had some influence," he said. "It's why he's been acting so strangely. But now he knows where we stand."
"You're being arrogant, Peter."
"How so?"
She sharply met his eyes from below, through the russet haze of her hair. "You're convinced he's a god of death, yeah?"
"Something like that."
"The terrans worshipped things like him."
"Aye, primitive like and living in caves. There's nothing sacred about him."
"But he's faster than you. Smarter than you." Alyce paused like she thought he might argue. "Just because he doesn't want to hurt you, it doesn't mean you're above him," she continued. "You sound like you're training a dog, Peter. Show a little respect."
The rare adult in her, peering out. Peter thought of Sei and Baroona, veritable henchmen watching him go, and the protectiveness of the tono survivors, how they'd follow Ethos with only their eyes until they were needed or called for or shunned. And he thought of Kacha, before and after, the shadow lore and the rage in her voice, and how Alma had shone and said creation.
"Peter." Alyce was staring, her hand in his. "Peter, do you understand?"
Creation. Shadow. God. Monster. Someone like that had cried on his shoulder. Someone so deeply feared and treasured. Peter smiled to reassure Alyce. "Yeah," he replied. "I understand."